Each poem paints her
over and over
extended hand held out
held up, each poem
drawn to itself

each poem in drawing
draws what it will and
what it will nowhere find
creation lives an inside in
and must get out of it--
and does--by getting.


Beauty eats Beauty
by getting inside the beauty
and getting what it will nowhere find.
It must get out again--
it does--so beautifully.

Creation makes Beauty
through itself in that self;
in that rain we cannot see
in light we cannot taste.
In this fruit Beauty makes
the flowering of its own heart.



Beauty makes Beauty.
That fruit is living water--Taste!
And see Beauty!

Creation is to life
its gift
is not, is not
not dead
alive
not dead
a gift
of beauty is
the other shape
the one beyond--
beyond those things we cannot bare
in those things we cannot bear
in those things we do not love--
and must--those things
are what we must devour
if Beauty is to flower.

Beauty came to me one day.
It came in the form of my brother.

But, truth is, this form
was my brother and
this form was not my brother.
This form was you.


But, this form was you
acting through and you
were neither you nor my brother.

(It was Beauty.)

She gave me a gift.
That gift lives inside
of me and must
offer itself again
if Beauty is to flower.

Beauty eats Beauty
in a way that scatters it
like a golden shower
like an unholy hour
like the one who must and
in refusing, gives, moreover still
like the one who mustn't, yet will
for the sake of this brother.